


Caught in The Golden Web

by widowsbitch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Eventual Consent, Eventual Smut, Eventual Torture, F/F, Kidnapping, Master/Pet, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape/Non-con Elements, dubcon, eventual leash play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26726533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/widowsbitch/pseuds/widowsbitch
Summary: Widowmaker succeeds in kidnapping Tracer, her favorite little agent. Tracer can't imagine her plans for her, can't imagine she may be in a place Overwatch can't find. What is Widowmaker planning? If this isn't for ransom money, why not just kill her already?
Relationships: Lena "Tracer" Oxton/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Comments: 13
Kudos: 144





	1. 1

It's another headache that wakes Tracer this morning. Raw, ripping pain threatening to split her brain in two. She goes to roll over, bury her head in her pillow, curl into the fetal position, and yank the sheets up over her shoulders like she's done for years.

Except, she doesn't move... She can't move. Her heart hammers in her chest as memories flood back, sharpening the pain, quickening her breath.

  
_A bomb threat. Talon. The frantic call from Winston; racing, blinking towards the site. A glint on the clock tower. An explosion. From behind her? BANG. Blood, red in her eyes and spilling onto the concrete. It fades to pink. Purple. Black._

  
" _Bonjour, chérie_." 

"No, no," she groans, fighting and pulling. She's becoming more aware, feeling returning to the rest of her body in tingling waves. She's on her back, pulled taut and vulnerable with her wrists bound-- no, _shackled_ \-- above her head. “What... where am I?” She shakes her head, her eyes starting to focus. 

Concrete. The ceiling is concrete. The walls, too. The floor is shiny, like some type of linoleum. The room is bare, save for whatever she’s laying on. The only light is bright, fluorescent, tunneling in through a door on the far wall. Her captor is illuminated from behind as they stride towards her. Their face is cast in shadows, hidden in the darkness, but it doesn’t matter. She recognizes the voice, the form and flow of the woman now standing over her.

“ _Ah_ , Lena...” her face is caressed, slender fingers trailing down her jaw, looping under her chin and tilting her face up. She can feel cool, minty breath at the tip of her nose, but she keeps her eyes closed now. This can’t be happening.

“Are we underground,” She groans, through gritted teeth. That gentle hand slips down to her throat, wrapping around her easily.

“You ask too many questions, Lena,” that bittersweet voice whispers against her ear now. Goosebumps erupt across her neck.

“Stop calling me Lena, _Amélie_.”

The hand on her throat flexes, gripping her tightly. Then she’s slammed down against the table and Widowmaker mounts the table, mounts _her_. Legs on either side of her thighs, their bodies pressed together so tightly that Tracer can’t even hope to wriggle away. Manicured nails dig into her skin, fingertips expertly blocking off the oxygen to her brain. She’s choking her out.

Tracer’s eyes are open now, locked with angry gold, fiery and sadistic. A chill runs down her spine just as her vision begins to blur. She fights it, tries to match the fire burning her down. Then the gold fades to purple, swirling in darkness... it goes black. Everything, black.

There’s a snap, a searing pain across her cheek, and she’s back.

Her throat is still held firm, her body still pinned, but she’s allowed to breathe now. To gasp desperately for air, to struggle and writhe under the woman securing her, forcing her into submission. Once she catches her breath, Widowmaker leans in, slowly, holding eye contact until her lips are against Tracer’s ear.

“Don't you dare,” Widowmaker snarls, nails twitching, still set into the marks they’ve formed, "use that name."

She doesn’t think much before she replies. “You get to use my name, but I can’t use yours? S’not fair.” She tenses up with every word, bracing for the next blow, the next blackout. 

Instead, Widowmaker is still as stone. Tracer risks making eye contact again. She catches a split second of emotion before her wall comes back up. Her face stiffens further, her lips pulled down. She’s angry, but thinking.

She takes a deep breath, and then huffs, “Yes. We are underground.”

She moves suddenly as ever, and all the pressure is off Tracer’s body in an instant. A cold chill shakes her, goosebumps erupting across her skin at the sudden loss. “Somewhere that does not exist to anyone but me, _chérie_. Your beloved team will not be coming for you.”

“You’re lyin’.” She tries to call her bluff, to sound confident, but her voice is shaky. Her voice cracks, her throat too dry. Tears prick at her eyes as panic stabs at her chest, but she can’t let the fire inside her die. She can’t let _herself_ die here. 

“I would not lie to you, Lena.” Widow’s voice is gentler now, almost soothing. Almost apologetic. Cool fingertips swipe away the hot tears sneaking from her eyes, fighting to stream down her cheeks. “Hush now, _chérie_. There is no need to cry. You are safe.”

“ _Safe?!_ ” Tracer chokes out, jerking her face away from the woman’s uncomfortably gentle touch. “How could I be safe here? Chained to a table in a secret cellar!” Widowmaker’s hands cradle the sides of her face now, gently guiding her into eye contact. That fire in her eyes has lessened to golden, glowing embers.

“This is a delicate, and _temporary_ , situation, my pet. I cannot simply open the door and let you do as you please. Not yet. You would run away, straight back to your old masters."

“What the bloody hell are you talkin’ about? I’m not a _dog_ , you’re not makin’ any sense!”

“It will in time, darling.” She pushes back the locks of hair falling into Tracer’s face. She shushes her, leans in and plants a lingering kiss to her forehead. Tracer feels her chest bubbling, boiling over, and her tears flow again. “Trust me, Lena.”

“How could I _ever_ trust _you_?”

The cool touch and warm pressure is gone again, in an instant. She squints through the tears blurring her vision. Widowmaker, her captor, her _kidnapper_ , is standing beside her now, displeasure painting her face in watercolor. Tracer has to blink away her tears, the flow too strong. Her chest heaves with sobs, her throat straining to keep her sorrow from echoing in her prison cell.

She hears muttering, shuffling, and blinks rapidly to clear all the tears from her eyes. It doesn’t work too well, but she barely processes Widowmaker reaching down into her boot.

“W-what are you doin?” Tracer’s voice shakes freely now. She can’t fake it anymore. There’s too much information racing through her brain, triggering too many emotions to process.

“This... Is not working,” Widowmaker mutters, defeated, opening the small case she pulled from her boot. There’s a syringe inside, half full with a clear liquid.

“No! _No_ , what is that? Don’t, _Amélie_ , please,” she hears her mistake, but she’s desperate now, watching her captor flick at the syringe, ridding it of air bubbles, prepping it for injection. “Please, _don’t_ \--”

“I am sorry, _chérie_ ,” Widowmaker’s voice is quiet, touched with a tone of regret. Tracer’s cheek is caressed just as the needle sinks into her bicep. “Truly.”

Her captor leans in as the drug rushes through Tracer’s veins, as her eyelids droop and her limbs go weak. She stays, right there in her vision, right til the very end.

Gold. Amber. Purple... swirling to black. Heaviness. Nothing.

\---

Lena goes limp in her hands, eyes closed, the fear seeping from her body and into nothing. Amélie strokes her jawline, pushes back her sweaty bangs, runs a thumb across her eyebrow. She looks peaceful now, but empty.

“Sleep now, my pet.”


	2. 2

The next time she wakes up, she lets herself believe it was all a dream. She’s in a proper bed now, tucked warmly under a silk sheet and heavy comforter. The headache is gone, but her limbs feel heavy. With a start, she realizes her legs are free, she’s not tied down. She reaches to move the blanket and--

_Damn._

Her hands are secured, her wrists bound together. But she can still _move_ , she realizes. She isn’t pinned down, her hands aren’t above her head. All that connects her wrists to a post on the-- shockingly tall-- headboard is a few lengths of twine, braided together for added strength. Eyebrows furrowing together, stomach jumping, Tracer frowns.

“What the hell...” The bed is an upgrade. for her. Tactically, it’s a downgrade for her captor.

Her captor.

Widowmaker.

She freezes entirely. Her insides are absolutely _screaming_ at her that it’s time to panic, it’s time to thrash around, pull and chew on the twine rope until she’s free. Outside, her limbs are still so very heavy, and as her mind continues to put all the pieces together, her confusion overrides her panic.

Is she... _No_ , she can’t be... Is she in Widowmaker’s home?

Thoughts swirling, around and around, faster than her brain can process the information, her body goes slack.

_Okay. Breathe. Breathe... This isn’t so bad, is it?_

The walls aren’t concrete. In fact, one wall is stone, built and carved by expert masons. The other three walls seem to have a more modern build, painted a purplish maroon. Heavy, richly colored curtains hang over vaulted windows, the half-dozen of them all left slightly opened, allowing in thin rays of sun.

The room is surprisingly comforting, besides the few bucks along the stone wall, leering over the room with empty eyes. Prints of Paris and France’s countryside adorn the painted walls, a few plants are hanging near the windows, or shoved into lonely corners. Finally, directly across from the headboard, where most people these days would hang their television, is something so starkly beautiful, Tracer is surprised it wasn’t the first thing she noticed.

It’s a massive painting, easily over 6 feet tall, hung over a luxurious tapestry that compliments the brightest tones of the artwork. A beautiful portrait of a woman on stage, captured in a beautiful twirl, the main attraction of a brightly lit stage. Tracer squints at the painting, tilting her foggy head. She can almost recognize this woman, but it’s so faint-- like seeing an old celebrity crush back on the front cover of a magazine.

_Who is that?_

Before her brain can reach the memory, the heavy double doors to the bedroom begin to creak open. She startles, pushing herself back against the headboard and down into the mattress. The overwhelming sense of pure confusion hits her again, her heart slamming in her chest as Widowmaker walks in.

Silent, if not for the heaving of the solid wood doors. Her posture is slightly off and it makes Tracer’s stomach roll with unease. Her stance is that of caution, as if she knows there’s a feral cat hiding somewhere in the room.

When Tracer doesn’t scream, doesn’t start ripping at her bindings, Widowmaker approaches, her back straightening with confidence. Tracer swallows.

She’s trying to stay calm, trying to breathe carefully and focus. She doesn’t have enough information, she can’t figure this out alone. If trying to remain still and hold a conversation with Widowmaker is her opportunity to get even one more piece to this puzzle, she has no choice but to take it.

When Widowmaker stops beside her bed, Tracers stalls. Carefully, she sits up and angles her body towards her host. She hesitates to make eye contact, instead studying the outfit the other woman is wearing; a black, long sleeved v-neck and deep purple athletic leggings. It’s an _uncomfortably_ casual sight, something Tracer should _not_ be seeing, so she clenches her fists and looks up.

She hasn’t seen Widowmaker without her visor before now, and certainly never with her hair down. Tracer doesn’t notice her hands relax when she takes note of how truly beautiful a woman slept beneath the Widowmaker's mask.

Widowmaker is fast, cruel, and merciless. A father could beg for his life at the feet of the woman in front of her, and whether or not she’d pull the trigger would depend solely on the words spoken to her through a headset. She listens to her orders, she completes her missions. That’s who everyone else sees.

Tracer, however, is seeing an _entirely_ different woman. One who sunbathes on the beaches of Spain, drink in hand, hair in the wind, a sly wink under dark sunglasses. One who hunts from a saddle atop her horses, claiming the heads of bucks so large, she shouldn’t be able to haul them home. One who moves with all the grace of a ballerina--

“It’s you,” Tracer breathes, her voice still heavy, hazy. “In the painting, that’s you, isn't it?”

She glances between them, the woman in front of her and the woman in the portrait. She’s almost ashamed that she didn’t recognize her immediately.

Widowmaker turns, spinning slowly to follow her gaze, as if she happened to forget about the _giant portrait_ of herself on her bedroom wall.

“ _Ah_ , well... You are not wrong, but you are not correct, either.” Widowmaker turns back to her, eyes guarded, but thoughtful. “The painting is not of me.”

“It’s not?”

Widowmaker shakes her head, just once.

“... Amélie, then?”

“... Oui.” She reaches for Tracer now, more cautious than the time before.

Tracer’s muscles tense immediately, but when the tips of cool fingers grace her cheek, she feels herself let out a long, slow breath. That small act of submission breaks Widowmaker’s face into a smile, and she cups Tracer’s cheek fully.

“I hope this place is not as... intimidating? As the last?”

Tracer hums before she can stop herself, but the sound, the feeling breaks her from her haze, and she carefully pulls away from Widowmaker’s hand. The woman disapproves, she can tell by her frown, but she lets her hand fall to her side.

“Why...?” Widowmaker rises her brows at the half-question, a glint of amusement breaking the tension in her eyes. Tracer clears her throat, clears her head, and tries again. “Why am I here?”

“Because you are safe here,” Widowmaker says it so simply, with a shrug of one shoulder.

“I was safe at _home_.”

“ _No_ , you were not,” Widowmaker turns to walk away, to a closet on Tracer’s right. “Talon put a hit out on Lena Oxton three days ago.” She pulls something off the back of the door, tossing the hanger it was on into the closet and shutting the door.

Tracer blanks for a moment, then shakes her head and narrows her eyes at Widowmaker.

“They put a hit out on me? On _me_ , not just Tracer?” Widowmaker hums in confirmation, returning to the bed and laying the bathrobe she’d retrieved across the foot of the bed. “You’re sure?”

Widowmaker flashes her a quick glare that makes Tracer’s face flush. “Right, yeah... Sorry.” The woman doesn’t reject or accept the apology, simply stands beside the bed, hands folded in front of her, studying Tracer as her mind reels. “But... why?”

Again, Widowmaker shrugs with one shoulder. She looks beyond Tracer now, at the twine braid keeping her on the bed. She brings one knee up, reaches for her boot, and Tracer scampers up the bed, as far away from her as she can get.

“ _I’m sorry_ , I’m sorry, I’ll stop asking questions. Just, _please_ , don’t drug me again.”

Widowmaker moves very slowly as she says, “No, chérie. I do not want to drug you, I want to free you.” She flashes the small knife to Tracer, the other hand up in a small show of surrender as she moves onto the bed.

Tracer swallows, thickly. Anyone in this situation would, but... “I would not lie to you, Lena.” It’s the same line she gave her the other day, about how Overwatch would be unable to find her. So far, she had made good on that promise.

After a moment of hesitation, Tracer nods.

She scoots herself closer, offering her wrists to the black widow.

Carefully, the tip of the blade is dipped between her wrists, then jerked up. The twine is cut apart like butter, and Widowmaker’s free hand comes in to untangle Tracer’s wrists. She leaves the bit dangling from her headboard for a later time.

Tracer immediately starts scratching at her wrists.

“Bloody _hell_ , that shit is _itchy_...”

Widowmaker tuts above her, still on her knees, now simply towering over Lena with a small, but very sharp, knife in hand. She raises one brow, but Tracer can’t figure out what she wants. She gapes blankly.

“Speak with more dignity, Lena. You are not so...” Widowmaker scrunches her nose in a moment of thought. “Trashy.”

“Am so, or you wouldn’t like me so much,” Tracer mumbles, blushing brightly as she rubs at her wrists. She can’t stand the embarrassment of being reprimanded for her language, and in refusing to meet Widowmaker’s eye, she misses the twitch of her lips.

“Perhaps,” Widowmaker says. Then she turns, slipping off the edge of the bed and picking up the bathrobe once again. “Come now, pet. It is time for your bath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and forth on the idea of her being Odette or Odile, but I have some thoughts on who Amélie would feel more connected to, so Odile it was.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for the reads, kudos, & comments everyone! I know I'm a few years late to the ship, so for this fiction to get any bits of attention blew me away. The positive comments assured me that people still ship these two buffoons, and there's a strong audience for darker topics. Fantastic news for me, really. ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one, guys!


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new dog won't bathe herself. Well, she would if you let her, but where's the fun in that?

When Lena trips on the way to the bathroom, Widowmaker just scoffs and hauls her up by the elbow.

“Are you going to be able to bathe yourself, _chérie_?”

“You’re the one who decided to _drug me_ ,” is all Lena can manage to mumble back. She’s focusing very hard on ensuring her knees don’t buckle, and her head is just so damn _fuzzy_ , she can’t think fast enough to stop herself from biting back at a woman who could crack her like a twig. Widowmaker rolls her eyes.

“It was not horse tranquilizer, Lena.”

“The hell was it, then?” Widowmaker offers her a very concerning shrug of nonchalance as they step into the bathroom. “You.. You don’t even _know_?” Another shrug, and they come to a stop beside the tub. 

“Sombra does, and that is enough for me. I do not know the name of the chemicals, _non_ , but I trust Sombra with my life. And, by extension, yours.” Widowmaker drops the bathrobe she was carrying into a chair and turns on her heel to face Lena. “Come now, off.”

“Hey, _hey_!” Widowmaker’s hands reaching for the hem of her shirt makes her to jump so badly, she nearly knocks herself over. “Hey, _whoa_ , what’re you doing?”

Widowmaker just raises one eyebrow at her. She doesn’t say a word, her lips don’t so much as twitch. Everything in the room hits Lena at once; the steaming tub (larger than anything she’s ever bathed in, _what the hell_ ), the stack of towels, the chair pulled up to the side of the tub. Her hands, _still on Widowmaker’s hands._

Her fingers twitch with the instinct to let go, because she really wants to keep her fingers, but Widowmaker isn’t letting go of her, either. Isn’t moving. Is she even breathing?

Lena tries to swallow the lump in her throat.

“Do you-- My God, do you actually plan on _bathing me_?”

“I would prefer if you did not drown your first night home, so yes, I will be bathing you.” Her voice is firmer now, less how it sounded just a few steps ago and more how it sounds on the battlefield. Lena tries again to swallow. “I am beginning to lose my patience, pet. _Off_.”

Shaking and quivering, she relinquishes to helping Widowmaker remove the tank top beneath her accelerator. She gives up on the lump in her throat, instead choosing to squeeze her eyes shut and let her body be worked through the motions when Widowmaker reaches for the waistband of her leggings.

When she’s guided to step out of the cloth pooled at her feet, Lena’s face is _hot_. She can feel how brightly she’s blushing, and the way Widowmaker seems to be appraising her body like a painting for her collection doesn’t help one bit. Lena moves to step into the tub, but a palm thumps against her chest.

She freezes, and she can feel the exhausted sigh Widowmaker gives her vibrate down her arm, through her fingertips and straight into Lena's chest. “I am not going to ask again. I am being considerate, allowing you to remove this on your own. Do not push me.”

Lena’s eyes sting, burn. She’s trapped. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was hoping to blink the fuck out of here once the drugs wore off. Supposed hit be damned. She had no intentions of simply giving in and becoming whatever sort of sick pet Widowmaker planned to make of her.

But in this moment, right now, Lena has to make a choice. She can willingly give up the last shred of control she has a chance of holding onto in this situation. Or, she can put up a pitiful fight, with some mysterious drug still thumping in her veins and making her head cloudy.

Well... she’s always considered herself a fighter.

She knows better, _she knows better_ , she knows she can’t pull off a successful blink after a couple drinks, let alone after being drugged. Let alone stripped naked.

Let alone drugged, naked, and in the house of a murderer.

Lena was not known for making the best decisions.

They lock eyes. Ready-to-pounce brown and sharp golden warning signs.

“Lena...” Widowmaker growls out, her teeth clenched. Her final warning.

Lena blinks away.

...

At least, she _thinks_ she blinks, but she only phases about six inches backwards. Widowmaker is fast, deadly fast, and before Lena can stumble onto her ass, there’s a fist in her hair and a snarl pressed against her cheek.

“Fine, _chérie_.” A heavy, mocking sigh. “We may do it your way.”

Widowmaker yanks her down, pulling Lena to her knees with a painful crack against the marble floor. Her jaw drops in an undignified cry, bright stars of pain dancing behind her eyelids. Before she can catch her breath, her head is pulled back violently, so that she’s facing straight up to her captor, gasping for air.

Cold fear zips down her spine like a bullet, tears stab at her eyes, and she squeezes them shut against the cascade. Goosebumps erupt across her skin as she pants through the splitting pain, the steamy atmosphere a sharp contrast to the ice cold grip in her hair.

“S-sorry, _fuck_ , ’m sorry, just--”

Widowmaker just scoffs, this _disgusted_ , humorless little sound that makes Lena’s stomach drop. Her heartbeat is a drum in her ears.

The last thing she expects is for Widowmaker to kiss her.

If it can be called a kiss. She is not _gentle_ , by any means, but she is warmer than Lena could have guessed. (She briefly wonders if that’s just because of how badly Lena pisses her off.) Widowmaker is all teeth and tongue, growls pulsing from the pits of her throat and down into Lena’s.

She can’t think, she can’t _breathe_. Her knees are on fire in the sharpest way, and a little line of drool is starting to slip from the corner of Lena’s dumbfounded mouth.

She doesn’t feel Widowmaker bring her boot up. She’s so focused on the probing mouth against, _inside_ , her own that she doesn’t notice Widowmaker’s hand has left her hair. She doesn’t get it at all, until the woman pulls back, leaving her breathless and stupid, with...

With Lena’s accelerator dangling from one hand like it weighs nothing, the leather straps sliced clean. Her other hand slips her knife back into her boot and clicks Lena’s mouth shut in one smooth motion. Lena’s arms spring up to cover her exposed breasts with a flush of shame.

“Was that worth it, _chérie_?”

Lena doesn’t speak for the rest of her bath. Widowmaker doesn’t ask her to. Lena remembers how to breathe. The feeling of pure dread in the pit of her stomach even lessens after Widowmaker has taken her time washing nearly every inch of her, when Lena is handed the cloth Widowmaker was using to scrub her back and thighs.

“You need to eat. I will start dinner. I am trusting you not to drown.”

Lena takes the cloth cautiously, confusion tugging at her gut. Widowmaker trusting her on any level sounds like a joke, but after all this? She can’t simply be letting Lena cling to her dignity. Not... _Gods_ , not after a kiss like that. A _move_ like that.

No, Lena’s dignity is the least of her concerns. Lena’s accelerator leaving the bathroom in Widowmaker’s hands is confirmation.

She lets out a long, shaky sigh, staring blankly at and beyond the cloth in her hand. Her other traces absentmindedly over the implant in her chest. For a moment, the fog in her head clears, and she’s offered a moment of painful clarity.

She doesn’t need the accelerator to survive. It’s purely for combat, convenience, and a false sense of security. It’s the implant, placed just to the right of her heart, that keeps her grounded. Keeps her real.

She isn’t dead without her accelerator. She is only trapped.

Finally, fully, undeniably, _trapped_.

Lena doesn’t let herself make a sound as she finishes washing herself, tears streaming down her face to mix with her bathwater. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to be dramatic, but this is the end of the opening act. Shit's about to get dark and questionable.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY OKAY! I know it's been a month, and I'm sorry! I won't give any excuses, 2020 has been a bonkers year for the whole world, I'm confident everyone gets it. Plus, I'm from FF.net! Where the best fics were updated once a month, or left unfinished. This is normal, right? .... Right?
> 
> Anyways, I have a plan for the next chapter. Which is far more than could be said about this chapter! Hahaha.... ahhh. Fuck. HAVE AT IT THANKS FOR WAITING!

Dinner is quiet. Lena sobers up with every bite. (She has to admit to herself that Widowmaker is a decent cook, but she won’t tell her that.) Adrenaline starts coursing through her body, like the clarity that comes with a car accident. The haze is clearing, and now she’s ready to act.

But, there’s nothing she can do. She was given clothes to wear after her bath, but without her accelerator, she still feels naked.

So, she picks at her food, drawing out the meal, trying to think of any way to get away. To get out. She can’t do that without her accelerator. Her damned accelerator.

“So,” Lena starts cautiously, looking down the extravagantly long dining table at her host. “What’s your end game here, Widow?”

Widowmaker takes her time responding, setting down her utensil and taking a long sip of wine. Lena’s knee starts to bounce under the table.

“I’m sorry, my ‘end game’?”

“Your goal. Your reason for keeping me here, for keeping me alive at all.”

“Hmm...” Widowmaker swirls the wine in her glass. The bottle it was poured from looks older than the both of them put together, maybe twice over. Lena isn’t an expert, but she imagines it’s safe to assume Widowmaker wouldn’t drink anything without a jaw-dropping price tag. “To put it simply, dear Lena, you aren’t theirs to kill.”

“I’m not anyone’s to kill! I’m a human, a whole human being with thoughts and feelings! I’m not property. Certainly not that of Talon’s sorry bums.”

Her host is amused enough, or tipsy enough, to chuckle into her glass.

“No, you do not belong to Talon. You are mine, you belong to me.”

Lena tenses up instantly, hazy memories seeping back in. Her first moment with Widowmaker, in that cold, bare cell. She feels a small shiver creep up her back, erupting in goosebumps.

“No! I’m not anyone’s, I’m my own person. You keeping me hostage doesn’t change that.”

“Of course not, foolish girl.” She sounds genuinely disgusted. It’s just enough to stun Lena into a moment of silence. “I do not own you simply because you are in my home; I own you because you hunt me down every chance you get. Whenever you see me on the battlefield, you dart straight for me, no?”

“You killed my teammate’s brother. You shot him _through_ my accelerator. I owe him.”

“You owe him my blood?” Lena nods. “Or, do you owe it to your pride?”

She stands before she can think any better of it, her fists slamming into the heavy wood of the table.

“This is not about pride!”

For a moment, Widowmaker doesn’t move. The room is eerily still. Then, she sets her wine glass down and nails Lena with a glare that she feels in her bones.

“Sit down.”

“Fuck you.”

“Sit. _Down_.”

“Fuck. _You_.”

She doesn’t even flinch.

“If this was not about your pride, you would not be itching to fight me at the vaguest insult. If this was not about your pride, dear _Tracer_ , you would be laughing in my face. Now, do you care to be civil, sit down, and finish your dinner? Or do I need to drag you to bed?”

For a heavy moment, with Lena’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, they stare at one another. A deadly battle of wills, gold and brown meeting to spark a fire across the dining table.

Lena closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose, and inhales deeply.

“I do not belong to anyone,” she finally grunts, dropping into her seat.

“If you want to tell yourself that, _fine_. But you will. Now, eat your dinner, you are _truly_ wearing on my patience.”

Dinner goes from quiet to absolute silence. Lena doesn’t so much as hear the scraping of the other woman’s utensils, and now she’s glad for the ridiculously long table. They finish their meal with nothing else between them, besides the tension in the air.

It’s only after Widowmaker drains her glass of wine for the fourth time and begins to stand that Lena dares speak again.

“I’d like my own room.” Widowmaker pauses between her seat and the table, a blank expression on her face. “ _Please_ ,” Lena adds bitterly. Her host chuckles, then resumes her movements, leaving the table and Lena behind.

“ _Absolutely_ not.”

Lena glances between Widowmaker and the dinner table, narrowing her eyes in confusion.

“You just leavin’ your kitchen like this?”

“Non. My staff will arrive in the morning, and attend to it then.”

“... Staff?”

But Widowmaker doesn’t answer, just beckons for her to follow. With another apprehensive glance to the dinner table, Lena rises, jogging to catch up.

“Staff?” She asks again, falling into step with Widowmaker. The woman simply hums an affirmation. “You have _staff_?”

“You think I clean the entire chateau myself? Please.”

Lena thinks on that for a moment. No, she couldn’t imagine Widowmaker climbing atop ladders to dust the trophy shelves, or getting on her knees to scrub the hardwood floors. Having a hired staff seems much more her speed.

“So, if you’ve got a whole staff, how come you’re the only soul I’ve seen?”

“Oh, you’ve seen my soul?” The cold chuckle Widowmaker makes at her own joke sends goosebumps erupting across Lena’s back. Before she can think of a response, Widowmaker continues. “I sent them away for the weekend. I didn’t know what to expect when you awoke again, and I don’t need a wrongful death lawsuit on my hands.”

An image of the chateau interior covered in a mix of their blood flashes through Lena’s mind. It’s equal parts disturbing and exciting. Maybe tomorrow, when Lena’s got more rest and less drugs in her system.

They stop outside of Widowmaker’s bedroom. Her host gestures for Lena to walk in first. She doesn’t move a muscle.

“Why can’t I have a different room?”

“Because I don’t want you in a different room.” Lena still doesn’t budge. Widowmaker rolls her eyes. “Would you not raid my home for your device? Shatter my windows to escape into the night? Maybe drown in the moat of my castle?”

Lena opens her mouth to retort, to argue, but nothing Widowmaker said is incorrect. That’s exactly what she’d planned on doing, just without the drowning. She liked to think herself a decent swimmer.

“I thought so. After you, Lena.”

With a roll of her eyes and a knot growing in her stomach, Lena steps into the room. Her host follows, shutting the doors behind them. The sound of a heavy deadbolt sliding into place makes Lena’s stomach sink to her knees. When Widowmaker turns to face her, a glint of gold around her neck catches Lena’s eye.

“What’s this Davey Jones type shit? Do you have to be so dramatic?” Lena huffs, stomping into the bathroom to clean up for bed. Widowmaker shrugs and seats herself at the vanity outside the bathroom door.

“Since it bothers you so much, I will gladly double my efforts.” Lena groans from the bathroom. Widowmaker chuckles and begins brushing her hair out. “You can figure out which sink is yours, yes? You’re a clever girl, aren’t you?”

Lena can’t glare at the woman, so she settles for glaring at herself in the mirror. Since one sink is neatly surrounded by a dozen bottles of products, half of them with a French label, Lena correctly assumes the sink with little more than a cup, toothpaste and brush is hers. 

“This isn’t my brand,” Lena grumbles aloud. It’s nitpicking at its finest, but she’s itching for an argument.

“My apologies, dear Lena,” Widowmaker laughs from her vanity. “I’ll send for your personal items in the morning.”

The idea of Sombra or Reaper raiding Lena’s apartment, her cupboards, her _underwear drawer_ , is enough to make Lena choke on a bit of paste. She spits into the sink.

“I do _not_ want your colleagues in my home.”

“Ah, I’m glad you’ve warmed up to the chateau. I’ll have them leave the boxes on the steps, then.”

“God damn it, Widow, _no_.” She hears an airy sigh in response. “No, okay? No Talon agents in my apartment. You’ve crossed enough boundaries.”

Lena nearly jumps out of her skin when Widowmaker’s next words are spoken just over Lena’s shoulder.

“Would it make you feel more comfortable if I picked them up personally?” Lena brushes her teeth in what she’s sure is not a threatening manner, but maybe it’ll get her feelings across. She glares at Widowmaker in the mirror, brushing hard enough to make her gums bleed. “Perhaps my staff?”

“I don’t want anyone in my apartment but _me_.”

“That is not feasible. I’m giving you options, Lena. Pick one.”

Widowmaker approaches her own sink, turning the faucet and beginning her nightly routine. Lena jumps up onto the counter when she’s finished rinsing, and settles for watching her host. Widowmaker washes her face slowly, with more care than Lena has seen her put into anything.

That night, those few moments in the cellar, roll back out from the mental box she locked them in at dinner. She remembers liquid gold, and a voice so soft it hurt to hear it pass such lifeless lips. 

Lena averts her eyes from the other woman, focusing on a particularly nice swirl in the marble flooring. She chews her lip in thought.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I’m always nice to you, Lena.”

Lena snorts, smiling despite herself, and catches Widowmaker’s lips quirk up into a quick smirk.

“Like hell. What gives?”

Widowmaker doesn’t reply immediately. She rinses her face, blotting her skin dry with a fluffy, deep purple towel. Finally, she hums and reaches for her moisturizer.

“Have I not always favored you, Lena?”

“Have you?”

“Well, you aren’t dead.”

“Neither is Angela, or Fareeha, or--”

“Those two can _fly_. Not quite an easy shot.”

“And you’re the deadliest sniper since World War II.”

Widowmaker huffs in frustration. Lena almost lets herself believe there’s a blush gracing her cheeks. She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stands up and crosses the distance to Lena. She looks into her eyes so carefully, so cautiously, that Lena feels her heartbeat speed up. Her skin heat up. The hairs at the back of her neck stand up. Everything, being dialed up to max.

How can a woman so thoroughly capable of killing her look so vulnerable?

“I have no intention of killing your friends. Well,” Widowmaker shrugs with a nod of consideration. “Maybe Ana Amari.”

“Granny would get you first,” Lena says, only half joking. Widowmaker has the decency to smile. It nearly seems sincere.

“Honestly, _mon amour_? I do not doubt that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Soo, heyy. :D I haven't written in years, but in that time I've fully realized something;  
> I like my women femme and mean. Only gentle with their special pet.


End file.
